Title: When We Remembered
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Part One: The Outcast Prince
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was Aryan Singh Rathore at St. Elora’s Residential School—an elite hilltop boarding school for the children of tycoons, diplomats, and dynasties. Aryan didn’t advertise his bloodline. No one knew where he came from, or why he walked like a prince no one had crowned.
He had vitiligo. White patches bloomed across his arms and neck like old maps. The students whispered. “Leper prince,” they mocked. “Albino ghost.” But Aryan never flinched. His storm-gray eyes stared back, not with fear, but with silence deeper than revenge.
At night, he dreamed. Of deserts. Of battles. Of chants: Prithviraj! Prithviraj!Always—there was a girl. Her eyes veiled but unmistakably fierce. Waiting. Watching.
In waking life, Aryan was bullied, shy, hidden in shame. But in dreams? He was revered. Respected. Feared. This duality began to crack something inside him. Was this delusion? Or a memory that refused to die?
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Part Two: The Girl Who Spoke in Gold
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Samaira Deshmukh lived in a middle-class colony in Delhi. She was seventeen, studied literature, took the metro, helped her mom run a tiffin service. Ordinary, by all means.
Except—she wasn’t.
She once asked a grocer, “How many gold coins for potatoes?” Dead serious.She hated social media. She didn’t understand trends. She spoke like she’d stepped out of an epic.And at night—she saw fire. Women chanting. Invaders screaming. Her daughters clinging to her saree. And him. Storm-eyed. A warrior chained by destiny.
She didn't just see these dreams. She felt them—through her bones and her silence.
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Part Three: Collision
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They met during monsoon.
She was barefoot under the rain, face turned to the sky.“You’ll catch pneumonia,” he said, dry as gravel.She opened her eyes. “It’s just rain.”“You could fall sick.”“And wearing a cape to school is completely healthy?” she grinned.
The storm between them was instant. But they didn’t flirt. They retreated.Teenagers afraid of what their instincts already knew.Still—every night, she crept into his dreams. And for the first time, she laughed there.
He dismissed them. Just dreams, he thought. Just tricks of a lonely heart.
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Part Four: The Forgotten Fire
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For four months, they never exchanged names. Yet they kept meeting at the same old banyan tree.Lunches shared. Eyes met during assembly. Notes passed. But nothing spoken aloud.Until one day, she said, “I’ve seen you before.”“In a dream?” he asked.She nodded. “We’re always running. Or riding. You die in the end.”
His breath stilled.“Same dream,” he said.
And then they stopped speaking.Maybe it was fear. Maybe guilt.Some truths burn too close to the bone.
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Part Five: The Outcast and the Rebel
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He showed her his scars.“Does it hurt?” she whispered, tracing the white on his skin.“I already died once,” he said. “What’s a few insults now?”
She confessed too. About the veil she sometimes reached for.“I used to dream of waiting for a prince in a room full of mirrors.”“You don’t need saving,” he said.“No,” she replied. “But once, you did.”
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Part Six: The Swayamvar Memory
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It happened at a museum. A painting: Sanyogita placing a garland on Prithviraj Chauhan’s statue.
Samaira froze.“I’ve done this before.”Aryan clenched his fists.“I walked into a court of jackals. I garlanded a statue. They screamed. But I knew you’d come.”“I did,” he said hoarsely. “On horseback. We fled to Ajmer.”
Tears welled.“We were so young.”“We were in love.”
They held hands. No words. Just grief.
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Part Seven: Blood and Betrayal
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“I remember my son,” she said one windy evening.“And the fire,” her voice broke. “Johar. I stepped into it with my daughters.”He blinked fast. “And I wasn’t there. I was in chains.”“I know.”“I should’ve saved you.”“You saved me now.”
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Part Eight: Guilt in This Life
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“I didn’t go with my dad when he left for war,” Aryan said.“There was a school play. I stayed behind. He died. I was...laughing.”
She touched his chest.“You’ve carried war longer than any soldier. Let it end here.”
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Part Nine: Remembering Together
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They began writing. Names. Dates. Dreams. They mapped a life they hadn’t lived, but somehow remembered.
“Ajmer,” Aryan whispered. “There was an underground palace.”“There was a courtyard,” she said. “You got a scar fighting ten guards.”“You remembered?”“Better than a statue ever could.”
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Part Ten: The New Future
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Three months later, the dreams blurred. The visions slowed.But their bond? That sharpened.
Aryan walked proudly, vitiligo on full display.Samaira wrote poems about fire and veils and women who burned but didn’t break.
They laughed. They cried less. They built fortresses out of sand, memories out of silence.
“This hill,” Aryan said one day, “is where I’d build our palace.”She smiled. “Let’s start with a shack. Rent’s insane.”
They laughed. Really laughed.
“This time, we live,” she said.He nodded. “This time, we get it right.”
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Part Eleven: Full Circle
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Rain fell again. They stood under the banyan tree.“I remembered something else,” she said.“You used to write me letters. On palm leaves.”
Aryan pulled out a notebook. “I never stopped.”
She opened it. Pages filled with handwriting. Dreams. Battles. Kisses.
“I love you,” she whispered.
And then came the truth.
“Maybe I was just a fangirl,” she said, “infatuated with a hero I didn’t know. We were married for barely two years. You were always at war. You had other wives. Where was the love?”
Aryan looked at her, eyes steady.“And maybe I only loved your legend. Not you. Maybe it wasn’t love. Just hunger. Ego. Escape.”
A long pause.
“In our last life, we loved without knowing each other.”“In this one, we knew each other—and realized... maybe that wasn’t love at all.”
They didn’t kiss.
They held hands, just for a moment.Then let go.
They chose to walk away. Not in pain. Not in bitterness. But in truth.
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Final Line
> "To truly love someone," she wrote later, "you must know them. Memory isn’t love. Longing isn’t love. Recognition isn’t love.Only awareness is."
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and then Add to home screen.